


the spine of your body and its bones

by pocky_slash



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jack discovers he’s more comfortable with imperfection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the spine of your body and its bones

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://retconbookwrite.livejournal.com/profile)[**retconbookwrite**](http://retconbookwrite.livejournal.com/) challenge for [](http://azn-jack-fiend.livejournal.com/profile)[**azn_jack_fiend**](http://azn-jack-fiend.livejournal.com/). Title from e.e. cummings ([here](http://plagiarist.com/poetry/281/)). Thanks to [](http://solsticezero.livejournal.com/profile)[**solsticezero**](http://solsticezero.livejournal.com/) for being an awesome beta, as usual. I don’t normally write Jack, but as he’s my recipient's favorite, I thought I’d give it a shot. I hope you like it :)

Jack's no stranger to fucking women and he's not so far gone in this complicated mess with Ianto that he's forgotten how, but the reality of fucking this female version of Ianto is not as simple and sexy as he'd fantasized it would be.

"Are you okay?" Ianto asks in a voice that's not his own, not even close. Jack nods and kisses him again, sucks down any further sounds that Ianto might make because they're not his voice and they're not his moans and the sounds are jarring, almost more than the breasts and the curves and the cunt.

And that's the hell of it, really. He's been around Torchwood a long time--he's been a woman himself, once, and seen gender-swapping machines go haywire in the Hub. He's used to being flexible about these things, but every time he's indulged himself and wondered what Ianto would look like with breasts, with longer hair, with a softer jaw line, it's always been Ianto underneath it all. Slight differences, yes, and femininity and internal sex organs and tits, but still Ianto's features and coloring and mannerisms.

This is most decidedly _not_ Ianto. He's not fucking Ianto as a woman, he's fucking a random woman and he needs to keep reminding himself that it _is_ Ianto, that he shouldn't feel guilty, that he shouldn't feel _weird_.

He feels weird anyway.

She's a pretty woman, no doubt. She's not someone that Jack would kick out of bed and it's not like he's having trouble keeping it up as they shift positions and he takes hold of Ianto's hips, encouraging him to ride Jack with a slick ease that's not possible when they've both got a Y chromosome. But the set of the pelvis is wrong, different, and he can't help but think that maybe he'd be enjoying this a little more if it was more obvious that Ianto was in there somewhere.

He wonders when he became this sentimental and reminds himself that only one of them has turned into a woman and it's not him.

Once he wraps his head around the idea more securely, once he drives home the fact that this is Ianto and he should enjoy this, it gets easier and faster and messier. Ianto only has until morning, whatever that means, precisely, and it seems he's taken it upon himself to experience as much of this woman's body as possible. Jack doesn't know if the energy is a side-effect of what's been done to Ianto or a last burst of adrenaline, but he keeps going for so long that even Jack is exhausted and wrung out by the time that Ianto has literally been fucked into unconsciousness. It gives Jack time to close his eyes and catch his breath, to get his head and his thoughts together as Ianto's breathing evens out in the pool of sheets to Jack's right.

He's done a lot of staring at Ianto since this change, spent a fair amount of time wondering what, exactly, was under the tight blouses and skirts, but now that he's actually looking, the feeling of strangeness is back. Ianto is asleep, and without his mind and personality, Jack is staring at a stranger. A gorgeous stranger, yes, but still a stranger and one that's lying in Ianto's flat in the middle of Ianto's bed.

He wonders, absently, when it happened that he came to appreciate the familiar more than the beautiful. Not that Ianto isn't beautiful, in his own way--he's always been a sucker for pale skin and blue eyes, and Ianto's eyes are big enough for him to get lost in for days. But he's put on a few pounds and is frequently _too pale_ , his eyes sunken and tired. He has these odd, knobby elbows and there's really nothing spectacularly stand-out about him, other than the fact that he is something special to Jack.

In contrast, this woman really is perfect. Her skin is flawless, her waist is narrow-but-not-too-narrow, her breasts are pert, her legs are delicious. Even after hours of sex, not a hair is mused or out of place and her make-up is perfect. She's the type of woman who would fit in on a television show or a high society party or an exclusive night club. There's no doubt she's a turn on, even now. There's no way he's up for anything after the last few hours, but he can still feel the desire tingling in his gut as his eyes slide over her, drinking in her perfection.

But.

But.

He rolls onto his back and shakes his head. But she's not Ianto. Not even close. And Ianto may hate to name it, to think about it, to acknowledge it, but the two of them have managed to forge something in between the catastrophes of Torchwood, and Jack's gotten used to it. He likes it. It's comfortable, knowing someone else so well, having something familiar to cling to when their lives are a constant whirlwind of oddity and tragedy. Ianto may refuse to talk about it, but Jack doesn't need to talk to know that he loves Ianto as much as he's ever loved the people he's chosen to open up to like this--The Doctor, Rose, even Mary, Michael, Estelle.

Ianto as a woman, Ianto as this drop dead gorgeous woman, it was nice, it was fun, but it was different. Maybe he's getting old or maybe he's just realizing that _Ianto's_ getting old and the older Ianto gets, the less time they'll have together, but he likes having a body he knows so well, knobby elbows and all.

Jack falls asleep as the midnight blue of the Cardiff streets fades to pre-dawn grey. He wakes when a knobby elbow jabs into his side as Ianto rolls over, grumbling in his sleep. Jack needs a minute to remember why this is any different than most mornings, but his eyes crack open when he recalls the events of the night before, the events of the past few days. A quick glance to the side confirms that the aliens were telling the truth; Ianto is Ianto again, with all of his Ianto parts.

"Hey," he says, his voice deep and sleepy and cracking a bit.

Ianto ignores him.

Jack reaches out and pokes his shoulder.

"Hey, Ianto. Welcome back to the land of testosterone, Mr. Jones."

Ianto sluggishly opens his eyes and blinks sleepily at Jack. Jack missed those eyes. After a moment, Ianto rolls onto his side and runs his hand down his body, fingers brushing his flat, hairy chest, the slight swell of his stomach, his cock.

"Oh," he murmurs. "Lovely. Good to know. It's bloody early."

"It is," Jack agrees, but the hour doesn't stop him from wrapping his arms around Ianto.

He likes this body. He smooths his hand up Ianto's spine, the spine he knows every inch and divot of, the spine that was the first part of Ianto he really _knew_ \--a hand soothingly stroking down the back, across the shoulder, curled around the back of the neck long before Ianto let him put his hands elsewhere.

"I missed your dick," he murmurs into Ianto's shoulder, because it's expected and easier than saying, _I missed seeing your body and touching your skin and knowing what to expect._

Ianto laughs and rolls over, burying his face in Jack's neck, his stubble scratching pleasantly at the smooth skin there.

"You would," Ianto says, his lips moving against Jack's throat, and Jack missed that, too. He missed the scratchiness and the red-rimmed eyes, the way Ianto can be unkempt and rough and still delightfully perfect in his own way. Jack captures Ianto's hand and kisses his fingertips, his palm, his wrist, delighting in the bone structure he knows and the scars and freckles he's long since cataloged. Ianto laughs again, voice sleepy, lips chapped, and Jack closes his eyes and falls into the familiar timbre of Ianto's voice, the slightly ridiculous quality of his laugh, the little puffs of air that slip between his lips and warm Jack's skin.

"Want me to prove it?" Jack asks, looking up from the delicate web of veins stretching across Ianto's inner elbow. He lifts an eyebrow and offers a leer, but Ianto only blinks sleepily at him and smiles the slow, early morning smile that's so familiar.

"Later," Ianto says, resting his head again, curling up around Jack, with his strong, thick thighs and hairy chest and beautiful long fingers. "Sleep."

"Sure thing," Jack says, but even as Ianto nods off, he doesn't sleep. He keeps running his fingers over Ianto's flesh, reminding himself that yes, this is what he missed, this is what he was looking for, this is what he wants, this is what he _knows_.


End file.
